Not New Mexico...Not Yet

First, thank you to those who have visited, commented, and noticed that my posts have been a bit sparse. I needed more time away, but I didn't take as much as I needed. Thanks for pointing that out, some of you...you're so right, and I will try to heed your implicit advice. Now, though, I need to start my story. My warning to you: it won't be very interesting, it won't be very moving, it won't be much more than a few random recollections. If you stick it out to read this, and more later, I thank you. And I have to wonder, are you tugging at the edge of meaning, too?

My wife is in possession of the formal written notes from the first day or two, and my private notes are hidden in my portfolio, which may be in my car's trunk or, more likely, is tucked beneath meaningless papers in my car. The important thing: it doesn't matter.

I made a friend over the internet, not too many months ago, who interests me and who feels passionately about many things, some of which are not as meaningful to me. I learned, during my recent respite in New Mexico, that her mother died. This affected me deeply, though I've never met either one of them. One day, I'll try to explain the reasons I believe my emotions made this happen. Not now, though. Back to the issue. I read that my friend's mother had died and my eyes instantly filled with tears. I do tend to cry, or at least tear up, much too easily. It's embarrassing. But this emotion didn't feel wrong. It felt like the appropriate reaction to the loss of a loved one by a friend I've never met. Another Internet friend writes sometime about her 89 year-old mother and how they, the two of them, deal with the vagaries of encroaching age.

Those experiences, when I read about them, have similar effects. My eyes well up, my mind skips an age, and I wish I could turn back the clock so all of us could better share and understand our parents. Sadly, this will not happen.

Tonight, I'm just unable to twist my intellect to get it aligned with the world around me. I want to express myself, tell a long, interesting story about how my wife and I roamed New Mexico and saw pronghorn sheep and foxes and birds. But my mood, tonight, just isn't cooperative. My fingers are complaining, as well. Listen, though, and you'll hear me sighing, thinking about what I'll share next, and what I need to experience to make it all worth sharing.

I'm being obtuse. It's not intentional. I just don't have the mental stamina tonight to tell you what we saw and what we thought and what we felt. It was powerful, but more than that.

John